


The Center Holds

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Fix-It, M/M, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac entertains his curiosity; Javert is charmed in spite of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Center Holds

Now that the fighting has ceased, the streets of Paris are unnaturally quiet. As Javert returns to the rendezvous point, he passes two young women who are hurrying down an alleyway; a basket of bread is tucked under the arm of one of them. He sees no one else except in windows, their nervous faces framed like paintings. It is almost peaceful.

The men of the company, restless as they are, turn as Javert approaches; their hands tighten at their guns, but the captain recognizes him from across the way and they do not take aim. Javert approaches these familiar men half-smiling; he has done his work well. 

The captain stands at a respectable distance.

When he has finished giving his report, they offer him a meal of bread and cheese, which he takes in an alcove. As he eats, he watches the guardsmen. Most of them are young, and banter without a care. Their light hearts did not preclude them from doing the right thing. 

They do not approach him, he notes. And why should they? And why should it matter if they do or do not? 

Javert finishes his meal in silence and takes his leave.

*

Of course it is the street urchin who gives him away. The boys grapple him into place, and the warmth of their hands is heavy on him; though they are rough with him, they do not hurt him. His heart is pounding in his chest. He recognizes the boy at his right side. It is strange that he is aware of how tightly the boys grip him, and strange that he thinks of the captain's distance in the same stroke. 

As he denounces these schoolboys, he is aware of how he must look to them: Terrible, fearsome, awe-inspiring, an immutable representation of the government they are rebelling against. He can see their fear lying low, hiding under their aggression. 

It is with great pleasure that he fights them off—and then he is struck with his own weapon and he knows no more. 

*

The fighting stopped ten minutes ago; the schoolboys have suffered losses. Perhaps this will be enough to bring about a ceasefire. Javert's brain is too large for his skull, and his pulse pounds in his temples; he shifts on his knees to test what else hurts. There are some aching spots in his ribs, and his knees are uncomfortable, but otherwise he is intact. Good. He tests the ropes at his wrists. Too tight to slip out of, and knotted by an expert's hand. The same can be said of the noose at his neck, which chafes at the slightest pressure and forces him into a half-kneel if he does not wish to suffocate. Most of the boys' talk is difficult to parse, even when they pass in and out of the cafe in groups of twos and threes. Soon, the schoolboys settle about the barricade, leaving Javert to himself in the cafe. They can't have forgotten him.

Then he hears it: "Someone will need to watch him."

There is an uprising of grousing, and a young man says, "We should kill him now."

"Don't be silly," another boy says. "Allow me. Don't look at me that way—just for a while, Bossuet my friend, and then we can exchange ghost stories, hm?" His voice drops, and Javert cannot hear the rest of what he says, but there is a general murmur of agreement.

Someone says, "Be careful."

The boy's laugh rings in the gruesome air. 

He steps into the doorway, and Javert recognizes him immediately—the curly-haired boy who was so thankful to be saved. The boy at his right with the strong grip, who smelled strongly of fear-sweat. He pauses in the doorway, regarding Javert, his mouth in a crooked half-smile that does not fool Javert into believing he is truly amused. Which of his friends has passed tonight? 

"I trust you are well, Inspector," he says, and he shuts the doors behind him.

"Better than your friends, from the sounds of it."

He expects a snarling response, but the boy merely regards him, pensive. "Yes, that is true," he says. "Better than many of yours, as well." In his right hand is a sword, and he twists it now, making the metal shimmer in the lamplight. It would be an intimidating gesture if it were deliberate. Instead it is sad. "Well! It is done now." He drops his sword on the floor without ceremony and approaches Javert, his steps measured; the air clatters with the shivering of the sword. Javert does not look away from the boy as he approaches. When he is several meters away, Javert expects that he will stop—and then when he is a few paces away, he expects the same—but the boy does not stop until he is so close that the heat of his body is palpable and Javert can once again smell his sweat and the gunpowder on his arms. He crouches down, regarding Javert calmly. "It is not our wish to kill you," he says, "or anyone. It is an unfortunate fact of change." 

Javert will not even disdain this with a response. He merely sneers.

The boy takes Javert's arm, gently, and holds it. "I am Courfeyrac," he says, "and before anything else, I would like to thank you for saving my life." He pauses, studying Javert, his hand very still on Javert's arm, and very warm. Javert's head hurts terribly, and he does not know what to do about this warmth, or with Courfeyrac's thanks. The hand tightens, and Courfeyrac leans even closer, so that his rising tide of anger is inescapable. "I would also thank you for respecting my friends' sacrifice, Monsieur. Whatever you may think of us, at least have some respect for the dead." 

Javert has to bite down his automatic response, which, to his horror, is _Forgive me_. He is surprised to find that he has no other reply. After a moment of hesitation, he manages to compose, "The dead have no use for respect."

Courfeyrac leans back and barks out a laugh. "Neither do you, then. Allow me to disrespect you." 

Javert's stomach swoops.

Whatever his body anticipated does not happen: Courfeyrac begins to pat his chest and sleeves and divest him of his few belongings. Javert is grateful that his long sleeves hide his arms, for goosebumps have begun to prickle along his flesh and he cannot fathom why, except that the groping contact is one that he is unfamiliar with. When Courfeyrac's hands pat at Javert's trouser pockets, he cannot suppress a shudder.

Courfeyrac pauses. "You are very sensitive for such a stoic man," he says. Javert glares at him, which only inspires a smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His touch, which had been cursory, becomes deliberate; he lowers the heels of his hands onto Javert's hips, slowly, starting at his pockets, and teases his hands down Javert's thighs in a long, long symmetrical stroke. Javert is able to suppress his shudder in all of his body but his thighs. 

"Stop that," he snaps. "I am your prisoner, not your toy." 

Courfeyrac smiles. "An easy mistake to make, Monsieur." He removes his hands and stands.

The heat of him remains. Javert's breath comes in shallow bursts, and he believes that it is a result of the noose and the strain of his kneeling position, and even as he believes this, he watches with great interest as Courfeyrac turns his back to him, strolls back to his sword, and sits against the wall. He splays there, one knee cocked up so his arm can rest on it, the other leg sticking out, the cloth of his trousers stretched over him in a way that is oddly obscene, though Javert cannot see the shape of him between his legs. He can still smell Courfeyrac's sweat. 

Javert swallows. "I cannot escape," he says.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. "No."

"So you do not need to watch me." 

Courfeyrac rubs a hand over his mouth, across his jaw; it comes to rest at the crook of his neck. "Do I disturb you, Inspector?"

Javert has no answer for that. 

Satisfied, Courfeyrac leans his head against the wall. When he speaks, his Adam's apple bobs against the taut skin of his throat. "I can put you at ease, you know. I am told I am very skilled at it." He huffs out a soft laugh and passes a hand over his eyes; the tips of his fingers tremble. He is impossibly young. Javert has been that age, but never that youthful. He never burned, never went too close to the sun and suffered unafraid.

He burns now. His thighs remember that touch, and if someone came into the cafe, he would want to cover them, some part of him afraid that they could see what had been done to him. 

Courfeyrac drops the hand from his eyes, but he does not look at Javert. His lips tug up in a fruitless smile. "Well! Won't it be interesting to die. I don't suppose it will be too different from all the other little deaths I have suffered." He shakes his head and laughs, a honeyed sound that drips into Javert. 

This boy, he decides, is insufferable. "It is your decision to stay here and die," he says. "No one forces you into this stupidity." 

"Oh?" Courfeyrac's anger will not be roused again. His gaze rakes across Javert, who makes the mistake of shifting at that moment in a way that draws attention to his legs. "My, Inspector, aren't you a stiff gentleman." 

He is. Javert refuses to break eye contact; he feigns ignorance. "And you are a fool to rebel when you know the consequences."

"If I were not mistaken, I would say you have a heart that is hard as a rock," he continues merrily. "How cold it must be!"

"I would say you are a trigger-happy ninny."

"Inspector, my dear, your heart will not go soft until you have been treated kindly. I know this from experience." Courfeyrac's hand comes to rest on the inside of his thigh, a place which could be casual. "As luck would have it, I am very kind. I leave no man or woman wanting for kindness. Oh, the granite hearts I have coaxed into supple happiness! You might ask in what ways I have killed a man—what ways have I not? Is not death its own happiness, when it comes from our centers?"

"You are disgusting," Javert snaps. 

"So your mouth says," Courfeyrac says. "Your heart whispers something else. Though," and here he stares openly between Javert's legs, "it is more of a shout. Forgive me, Inspector, but I have checked your pockets thoroughly and cannot be convinced that there is something in them." 

It is so juvenile that Javert should be irritated, or at the very least bored—but his trousers chafe at him and he finds himself—well—well, it is so absurd, these brazen innuendos, and in such an absurd place, said so flippantly, that Javert is almost charmed. Certainly, Courfeyrac is still a damned fool, a rebel who must be snuffed out, but he is also, damnably, one of the friendliest men Javert has known. He is infectious, in a way that should be akin to a plague but is merely amusing. There is also the fact that if Courfeyrac had wanted to take Javert by force, he could have—but he removed his hands and walked away.

"That is very astute of you," Javert says. "Don't you have friends you could harass instead?"

Courfeyrac shrugs. "I have already had most of them. You are new to me, and strange—you incite my curiosity. As this is the last night of my life, I'd like to indulge my curiosity one last time, even if that only means watching you squirm as I joke about your cock." The word is vulgar, but he says it without inflection—and it is this that disturbs Javert the most. "What is the point of living if I cannot drink in as many novelties as possible?"

"I am not a new cask of wine," Javert says. As he says it, he realizes he is smiling back at Courfeyrac. 

"I imagine you are much more bitter. May I have a sample?"

Javert licks his lips. "No," he tries to say, but instead what comes out is: "A small one." 

Courfeyrac laughs and fakes a sympathetic grimace. "Don't sell yourself short so quickly, good Inspector! I'm sure you are just the right size." And, utterly delighted, entirely sincere, Courfeyrac returns to Javert and kneels between his legs.

It makes no sense—none at all. Javert has given him no reason to want to be in the same room, much less touch him. He is neither a handsome man nor an impressive one, and certainly not so in his civilian clothes. As Courfeyrac's hands fan over his thighs, Javert says, hoping to impress the severity of this truth on him, "I would kill you without a second thought." 

Courfeyrac only grins. "And I you. Watch!" And he bends down and kisses Javert's cock through his trousers. Javert gasps; his hips roll forward. Courfeyrac rides the motion, his hands caressing Javert's thighs. At the apex of the thrust, Courfeyrac opens his mouth and lets the heat of his breath huff through the thick cloth of the trousers. Javert finds his fingers wrapping through his thick hair, though the binds make it difficult to hold him in the way he would like. 

A nervous pleasure mingles with his pain as Courfeyrac sucks and kisses his cock; Javert's headache has only intensified, and this new tension makes his thighs ache, even as Courfeyrac's broad hands paint along them and move around to cup Javert's ass. He nuzzles his face to the root of Javert's cock and uses his tongue to find the outline of Javert through the trousers; the wet heat of his tongue winds its way up Javert's length in a way that is impossibly good. Javert chokes out a moan.

"Shh." Courfeyrac scrapes his teeth at the flat skin of his hips. His hands find the buttons to his trousers and undoes them with a deftness that can only be from experience. Courfeyac frees his cock and does not even hesitate to swallow it, taking the whole of it in his mouth in one long dip of his head. His mouth is unlike anything Javert has ever imagined; it is wet and hot and he sucks so there is a steady pressure on him all the way down. Javert gasps and arches up. Slowly, Courfeyrac slides his mouth away; it is evident that he derives great pleasure from dragging his lips against that soft skin. He kisses the tip and smiles. "What did I tell you? Just the right size."

"You—" Courfeyrac presses kisses to his thighs and does not break from Javert's gaze; he is attentive and curious. His hands seep under the hem of Javert's waistcoat, and Javert is forced to try again. "You—" He cannot find his voice.

"You flatter me, Monsieur," he says, smiling, and tastes just under the head of his cock. "I've only begun."

Javert comes. It shocks them both—Courfeyrac's mouth goes slack; seed pulses over his cheeks and his forehead, drops of it like wet pearls in his hair. Javert's shame cuts him before he's finished; he cannot imagine why he wanted this and hates that he's allowed it.

Then, Courfeyrac laughs, the sound a brass bell. "Oh! Oh, my God!" He wipes away a thin line of come before it can drip into his eye. "You are wonderful!"

Javert sucks down air and blinks blearily at him. He does not understand. This student is madder than he thought.

Courfeyrac sits up and kisses him; the taste of come is evident on his lips and Javert jerks back instinctively, the noose cutting at his throat. Courfeyrac leans back and begins to laugh again, wiping come from his face in a way that is too messy and leaves drying swathes of it on his skin that make Javert's stomach twist with something like disgust. "The formidable Inspector comes apart as easily as that! I wonder, can I make you do that again? I would not expect a man of your age to be so eager, Monsieur."

"Be quiet," Javert pants. 

Courfeyrac kisses him again, gentling his hands across Javert's cheeks. The taste of come does not surprise him this time, and he allows it. "I only tease, Monsieur. I admit I enjoy the boost to my confidence..." He palms himself through his trousers. "That is all. Would you mind if I took care of myself?" 

Javert finds that he does, though not for the reason that he would expect. He does not, however, trust himself to talk, and so only shakes his head.

Smiling, Courfeyrac sits back on his feet and slips open his trousers. Javert shuts his eyes. He will not watch this. There is a soft sound of movement, and then a familiar one, of skin—of hands—and Javert is aware of the way his breath tumbles down his throat and how the cool air feels on the flushed skin of his prick. 

"Be honest," Courfeyrac says, a little breathless. "Am I your first man?"

Javert does not mean to look. Once he has, he cannot look away. "Yes," he says. 

"Then we can both enjoy our firsts on this last night of our lives." When Javert glances up into his face, uncomprehending, Courfeyrac flashes him a bright smile, made worse by the flush that has spread into his cheeks. "Why, I have never been with an esteemed member of the police, Monsieur." He begins to jerk himself off with faster strokes, and once again Javert looks down, hypnotized by the rhythmic twisting of his wrist and the slide of Courfeyrac's fingers along his prick. 

Courfeyrac rests his palm against Javert's cheek; it is hot and damp, and Javert leans into it, his open mouth brushing at the ball of his thumb. It does not matter, anymore, what he does. Only God can judge him in this place. He sucks at the salty skin of his hand. 

Courfeyrac must understand. He moans very softly and swipes his thumb across Javert's cheek, then stands; he keeps a hand on the base of his cock as he leans his hips toward Javert's face. "Will you?" he asks, gentle.

Javert braces against the noose and mouths at the swollen head of his cock. The taste of salt and come is immediate, but Javert welcomes it, now, laps his tongue clumsily at the slit of his cock as if seeking more before trailing his tongue down to Courfeyrac's fingers, which he sucks at just as hungrily. Anything to keep his warm hand on his face a little longer. Anything to have this final lie. "I would kill you," he repeats, breathing it along the length of Courfeyrac's cock. Courfeyrac sighs from the bottom of his chest, and slides his hand up Javert's face, skittering across the blood of his forehead, coming to rest in his short hair. Javert could not, he thinks, kill him. He could arrest him. He could put him in chains—could make him vulnerable against a wall and suck his cock like this for hours, could discover how much it would take for Courfeyrac to beg. He could not kill him.

"Oh, God," Javert murmurs. He has lost his mind. He spreads his lips across the head of Courfeyrac's cock, then tentatively lowers his head further, sucking and swallowing, the stretch of his cock uncomfortable. Though he knows the general theory of what to do, the reality is strange, and he tries to work his tongue along Courfeyrac's length with limited success—Courfeyrac, for his part, sighs again and groans when Javert takes in another half-inch. His hips stutter forward before he can stop himself, and Javert chokes. He tries to be grateful when Courfeyrac apologizes and pulls back, but his throat is sensitive with the memory of it and he wants to try again, wants to gag and supplicate and forget himself until Courfeyrac has followed through and made him come again. 

"You're doing very well, Inspector," Courfeyrac murmurs, stroking his hair. "Top of the line work." 

"Javert," he says. He is not brave enough to glance up and meet Courfeyrac's eyes; this admission seems the most terrible one to have made tonight.

"Javert," Courfeyrac repeats. He traces back down Javert's face, lets his fingers tease at his lips a moment before returning his hand to Javert's hair.

With a shiver, Javert resumes his work. He is hesitant to take Courfeyrac fully in his mouth again, but he laves his cock with long, long strokes of his tongue, and mouths loosely as he goes, and when Courfeyrac's cock twitches against his cheek, it is not just arousal that he feels but a sense of accomplishment for having returned pleasure to this boy. 

"Please look at me, Javert," Courfeyrac murmurs.

Javert does, and hopes he is not too obscene a sight, his wet tongue rolling across the head of his cock in a slow swirl. It is difficult to see the full extent of Courfeyrac's expression in the dark yellow light of the cafe, but there is something sombre there which makes Javert shiver. 

Courfeyrac's hand slips back down his face, petting, sweet and slow, and his fingers slide further down, come to rest between the noose and Javert's neck, a salve to the chafing burn of the rope. 

"I'm close," Courfeyrac says. "Javert, I—" he hisses and bucks his hips when Javert takes him in his mouth—his sombre face opens in surprise, and amusement, and his thighs tense, and he comes in Javert's mouth, the spend hot against the back of his throat. Some of it slides down Javert's chin, though he swallows back each pulse of it, taking it as final proof of his depravity, having lost too much of his dignity for this thing to matter. Courfeyrac's knees buckle, and he kneels down, panting. "Ah," he says, and his mouth works as if trying to say something else. He licks the come away from Javert's chin and kisses him chastely. "Ah," he repeats, then, "thank you," hardly above a whisper, and both of his hands smooth across Javert's neck, ruffle his hair. 

This will end, Javert knows. Until then, the warmth suffused through his body outweighs the pain, and that is enough.

*

Soon after, Courfeyrac leaves him, though not before tidying him up and kissing him on both cheeks. He is replaced with a boy with short, dark hair who leans against the wall and glares at him throughout and who would surely be quick to unleash his anger on Javert. He keeps his mouth shut and avoids looking at him, and it would be a lie to say it was not partially because Javert is afraid that returning that glare would make what had transpired clear to the boy. Another hour later, and another boy, this one in a checkered vest and of dreamy disposition, takes over the watch. 

By the time his hour is up, Javert is about to ask for Enjolras and demand that they let him have some privacy, as it is evident that their bonds are sufficient to keep him.

But it is Courfeyrac who replaces the dreamy boy, and Javert holds his tongue. 

Courfeyrac sits against the wall and sets down his sword. In the two hours since Javert last saw him, he has also acquired a pistol, which he keeps on his belt. Javert hopes it will serve him well, then balks at the thought—how could he hope for National Guardsmen to die at the hand of this rebel? 

When he smiles, it does not quite reach to his eyes. "Have you had enough of talking?" Courfeyrac asks.

"Pardon?"

"Jehan can get carried away," Courfeyrac explains, stretching his arms above his head. 

"You are the only one who's said a word to me." 

"Ah." Courfeyrac squints at him. "That's a pity. I told them you were interesting."

Javert scoffs. 

"You don't agree?" 

In the hours that have passed, Javert's knees have become a nigh-intolerable pain, and his neck is sore from the times he has been forced to lower himself down on the noose to ease the pain in his knees. His patience, as a result, has worn out, even for this candid boy. "No more games," he mutters.

"I am not playing, Monsieur! You are exceptionally interesting. You have so many contradictions, I cannot help but be amused." He begins to tick them off on his hand. "Let's see—the old man with a younger man's eagerness, the spy who cannot lie, the stoic man who smiles, and the man of the law who cannot see all the injustice about him. Yes. You are a very interesting man, Inspector."

Javert has a few words for that, but does not have the energy to spare them when it would only rouse bad blood between them. Courfeyrac's stubborn stupidity will not matter in a few hours, and neither will Javert's staunch adherence to the law. 

After a moment of silence, Courfeyrac sighs. "We could have been friends, I think, if I could ever get you to Combeferre—that is, if I could ever get some sense into you. May we at least not die as enemies?"

"That is unavoidable."

"Well," Courfeyrac says. He runs a hand through his hair. "No, I suppose that's true."

The susurrus of conversation outside drifts into the cafe. Javert has long given up trying to understand any of the words; at most he has caught exclaimed expletives and bursts of nervous laughter. 

Courfeyrac is more tired than he was before, but composed, now. He has accepted his fate. 

Javert would respect that in any man—he can respect that in this man, too. 

They await the shower of bullets in silence. When the hour is up, Courfeyrac takes his leave. No one else enters the cafe for many hours; they throw open the doors so he will not be out of sight, but do not bother with him again.

Then there is the brief report of gunfire and a familiar figure in the doorway, and once more Javert tumbles into Fate's hands.

*

In the confusion of the battle, Courfeyrac does not have the leisure of thought. He only knows the clutch of fear and anger, an animal adrenaline that keeps him with his comrades by instinct. They fall, one by one, their blood eddying in the gutters. They do not die alone: Guardsmen fall, taken by bayonets and bullets. If Courfeyrac had time to consider this, he would have despaired; he has the fortune to be hounded mercilessly, chased into a corner, and to only know the all-consuming fear and rage of battle.

It does not take long for he, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly to find themselves alone on the second floor. They crowd together, seeking the comfort of each other's bodies; Courfeyrac looks to Enjolras for what he knows must be the last time. He accepts this. They have done what is right. Whatever his death may mean to the survivors does not matter—here, in this cafe, with his friends pressed around him, he knows that he does not die in vain.

He holds his breath—braces himself for gunfire—

—but there is nothing. Only voices, and a shuffling of feet. 

A shudder passes through Enjolras, and it goes from him to his lieutenants.

"What are they doing?" Joly asks. 

There are footsteps on the stairs—one pair of heavy boots. Combeferre levels his pistol at the stairs, though his hand shakes.

"Do not do anything stupid," a sharp voice says, "like try to shoot. You will misfire." 

It is Inspector Javert. 

He comes to the top of the stairs and stops, one hand loose on his rapier, the other clutching a letter. He surveys the four boys imperiously; when his gaze falls on Courfeyrac, there is a flicker of recognition, and nothing more. Four guardsmen come up the stairs after him, and flank him. 

"You are all under arrest," he says. "If you know what is good for you, you will set down that gun and come quietly. If you are lucky, you will live." Again his eyes flicker to Courfeyrac—or is that an adrenaline-addled illusion? Perhaps this all is; perhaps Courfeyrac is dying, and his mind's last attempt at life is this horrible joke.

Four more guardsmen climb up the stairs; they fan out, trapping the boys. 

Inspector Javert waits another moment, then turns to the guardsmen. "Arrest them," he says. 

Combeferre pulls the trigger—but it misfires, clicking harmlessly. 

Javert smiles, and it is a terrible thing; he is transformed into something more animal than human. "What did I tell you?" he says. "Clean this garbage up." 

The guardsmen move in. Courfeyrac tries to speak—this can't be happening—but words fail him, and before he can try again, Javert has turned and descended the stairs.

Courfeyrac has no room in him but to wonder, with a little thrill of hope and the black edge of despair, to what end his friends will come.


End file.
